


Carry On

by Mottled_System



Category: Original Work
Genre: And All The Truth That's In Me, And Rake's Reward, Cheating, Companions, Dowager Baroness, Drinking, Dysfunctional Family, Earls and Countesses, Family, Family Bonding, Family Drama, Family Dynamics, Family Feels, Family Issues, Gambling, Like My Game Of Thrones OC, Marquis and Marchioness, Maura Is Writing To Herself, POV Second Person, Past Abuse, Past Child Abuse, Past Sexual Abuse, Past Violence, Present Tense, Somewhat Inspired By Pride And Prejudice As Well, Trauma, Victorian, Victorian Attitudes, Viscounts and Viscountesses, Wine, inspired by a lot of things
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-11-09
Updated: 2020-11-09
Packaged: 2021-03-08 23:14:57
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,351
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27474853
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mottled_System/pseuds/Mottled_System
Summary: You are Maura Devereux, a young woman living in Victorian England with your parents and two unmarried brothers. You feel very responsible for that, because they would have been married and off and happy by now if it weren't for you, and what happened to you, and how they're worried about you, and what everyone thinks about you now that- /that/- has happened. However, when your elder brother suggests working as a companion for your newly married cousin, you take the opportunity; the first time you've left your house since you returned to it four years ago. There, you meet all sorts of new people- people who, thank God, do not have expectations for nor opinions of you, so you feel more free to just... Be. Still, these people are strange and sometimes cruel, convoluted, and/or misguided, and you realize you have much to learn about people... Especially when you catch the eye of a mysterious heartthrob named Benjamin Madison, the son of an English Marquis.
Relationships: Arthur Madison/Nora Madison, Ben Madison/Maura Devereux, Charlie Madison/Hazel Madison, Dougal McCormick II/Aoibheann McCormick, Dougal McCormick III/Adrienne McCormick, Elizabeth Ellsworth/Dougal McCormick II, Erskine Ó Maolmhuaidh/Síthmaith Ó Maolmhuaidh, Frank Devereux II/Alice Ellsworth, Lorcan Ó Maolmhuaidh/Margaret Ó Maolmhuaidh, Lottie Madison/Domhnall McCormick, Niall Ó Maolmhuaidh/Jane Ó Maolmhuaidh, Oliver Ó Maolmhuaidh/Edith Ó Maolmhuaidh, Patch Devereux/Nellie Ellsworth, Richard Madison/Lydia Madison
Comments: 1
Kudos: 2





	1. Chapter 1

Your mother has never been particularly fond of you. She’s never detested or loathed you by any means… But, by the time you came around, she was already so infatuated with your older brother, so busy with him. And by the time she could have gotten around to you, well- your little brother was born, and he always needed so much attention, and she’d always preferred boys to girls… You’d never blamed her for it; you understood, even when you were little, watching her watch your brothers shine.

You and your father were closer; you were both a bit odd, both a bit blunt, both a bit harsh. He let you follow him around whenever he wasn’t working, pulling you into whatever he was doing so you felt big and important and strong, just like you saw him. You didn’t laugh and play like your brothers did with your mother, but it was a childish joy to shadow your father, to play pretend that you were like him, like you could be like him.

As for your brothers- well, they were much more stereotypical. Your older brother was bossy and arrogant and sure of himself, perpetually annoyed by you. Your younger brother was whiny and childish, perpetually annoying you. You didn’t have a particularly nasty relationship with either of them, but while they grew closer and more similar as time went on, you always felt like a stranger to both of them whenever you weren’t squabbling.

So, you spent your time with your father when you could, and alone when you couldn’t.

You had never been rich by any means- your father was a blacksmith and a veteran, and he spent most of his life working- but your mother had come from a rich family, an earl and a countess- and as such, your life was… Comfortable. Your parents had their own room, as did you, but your brothers had to share. Your house wasn’t beautiful or large, but it was big enough, quaint enough. You liked your room, small as it was, and the cheap little dollies your father had bought for you to play pretend with.

You were always fond of playing pretend, if only because there was nothing very interesting happening around you. Your imagination was a skill you began honing early in life, and your mind was an easy escape, a refuge to flee to even in the midst of an awkward conversation or boredom during your chores.

Your imagination is the only thing that remains now. Of course- your father is still here. In fact, right now, he is sitting at the table, reading by the window. He looks much the same, though his once dark brown hair is spotted with shimmering greys. His moustache is as large and burly as ever, his eyebrows ever knitted, his green eyes ever impassive. His shoulders are broad and strong from years of work, his hands calloused and covered in small knicks. But you do not shadow him. You do not play pretend with him. Whenever you crave what you had…  _ Before _ … Your imagination turns on you, conjuring up your father uncomfortable with your presence, giving you glances to let you know you really ought to be somewhere else, just like he does with other people who annoy him, who make him uncomfortable, and you’re terrified of being an  _ other person _ to a man who had, for many years, been your very best friend.

And, of course, you doubt he would treat you like that. He’d probably be grateful for you to stop moping around, wandering like a ghost haunting the place. He’d probably smile at you. He might laugh more often. He did that sometimes, when you surprised him or made him happy, in far away memories that you can’t quite picture anymore.

But you feel like an  _ other _ , now. And you can’t quite convince yourself that he doesn’t, so you don’t risk it, because you know your heart would break.

Mother is still here, too, sitting at the table beside him, chopping up vegetables. Her face is calm and unbothered, her silver eyes locked on the celery with an acute focus you had not inherited from her. Her brown hair is loose, her bonnet gone, free in her own home to be wholly exposed. She is as beautiful as ever, and save for some small wrinkles that appeared when she smiles or frowns, she is nearly identical to how she was  _ before _ .

But she’s nicer to you now, in a way that one would assume to be comforting but, to you, was only a reminder that you were different now- to them, if nothing else. Her voice was softer and she considered you in your own right, not as an afterthought but a priority… But you were both still so distant. You did not have a connection to her that you did to your father, and she did not have the connection to you that she did your brothers. You didn’t know how to make one, and you did not know how to pretend, because even if you did have that connection it would be so different with her than it was with your father, and you and your father were very odd, quiet people, and your mother was sweet and sociable and you were very bad at pretending to be that. You think she thinks you’ve gone a bit- dim, a bit absent, because you sit there and stare dumbly, awkwardly at her when she talks to you, but you’re not dim or absent, you’re just awkward- a thing she would know if you two had a connection. But you don’t. So she thinks you’re dim and you don’t know how to tell her that you’re not, but you hate that she treats you like you are.

And your brothers. They were both very different- older. Frankie had been just sixteen when you’d gone, not quite a man but perhaps no longer a boy. He’d stopped being so rude and intolerant of you, but he was still so cocksure. He was twenty-seven now, a fully grown man. He was not arrogant nor rude nor dismissive, just strong and good and smart and kind- he felt like a wonderful mix of Mother and Father, though admittedly not strange nor sociable at all. His face had grown and hardened, his eyes had gone wise, his expression almost gentle. He was sitting on the couch, hand stroking the cat absentmindedly as he relaxed. Seeming to sense your eyes on him, he glanced at you and gave a brief smile. You blinked at him before looking at Honey, the cat. She was purring under his thoughtless attention, outstretched on her back. They’d gotten her after you’d returned, because you’d always begged for a kitten as a girl, but she had never felt like yours.

Patch was also on the couch, the sound of him sketching mingling with the boiling soup on the stove and the chopping of celery to make a very homey ambience within the house. He had been six when you’d gone, a snot nosed bed-wetter who whined whenever he wasn’t at his mother’s hip, and twelve when you’d returned- older and drier, but still frightfully attached to your mother. He’d hated you for a good few months as mother attended to your wounds, but when he had seen-  _ what had become of you _ \- really seen, you know, as you’d overheard him whisper to Frankie one night, he’d felt guilty and grown up a little bit, treating you nicely.

_ Sod off, Patch. She’s just a little sad, is all. _

_ She’s a bit mad, Frank. She doesn’t even talk! _

_ She talks to me, a little. Now shut up and go to bed. _

You’d hated Patch for that for a little while, but not long. Maybe your sadness did seem like madness. But it had gone on for too long, now, and you were stuck being sad and maybe a little mad, and you didn’t know what to do. Patch was seventeen now, though still decidedly a boy.

You jump as someone touches your shoulder, looking up to see your mother’s frowning face. The wrinkles are gathered by her eyes and her lips. She looks- worried. “Can you hear me, Maura?”

“Sorry, Mother. Daydreaming.”

“You were staring at Patch,” she says, in a tone that suggests that that might mean something.

You look over at your brother to see him staring at you, uncomfortable. “That’s why, then. Can’t cope with looking at his ugly mug for too long,”

Frank laughs under his breath while Patch frets, offended, and your mother’s face neutralizes. “Very mature, Maura,” she says gently, not a true scolding. “I was asking if you’d like to help me with the soup.”

You look into the kitchen, trying to think of an adequate excuse, but finding none- you imagine they’d be floating around in there, apparently. “What would you like me to do?”

After a while of adding more and more to it, Mother serves dinner, leaving the rest of the soup boiling to cook longer. You sit beside your father and Frankie in the same seat you always did, staring out the window at the setting sun, occasionally taking a spoonful of soup. Patch, across from Frankie on the other side of Mother, is chattering on as he always does, earning many replies from Mother and a few from Frank. Occasionally, your father speaks up. You don’t believe you’ve ever said much at dinner, even before. You spend the first half of dinner just straining your memory to see if you can find an instance, ignoring the ones you muster up in order to pretend that you were right, that you never spoke at dinner, so you weren’t strange now.

“I’m just saying,” you hear Frank say, noticing he’s been talking more than he usually does. The air is tense; your mother looks sad, Patch looks bewildered, and Father looks-  _ angry _ , something you’ve rarely seen on his face. “It might be good for her.”

You realize suddenly that they’re talking about you and nearly drop your spoon. Your eyes dart between the faces of your family, waiting for someone to give you a clue as to what they’re talking about, suddenly very acutely aware of reality. Every detail seems to burn itself into your brain in a fraction of a moment, cementing itself without distracting you from everything else.

Mother is tired and worn and almost wistful, her brow slightly furrowed and her eyes far away, her lips not necessarily frowning, but close. Her hair is tucked carefully out of her face, something she rarely bothers with when it’s down due to its unruly nature; she’s fiddling with it, meaning whatever Frankie’s on about is making her uncomfortable. She’s not looking at him, which means she doesn’t find it reasonable. She’s not looking at Father, which means she’s afraid of his reaction to it. She’s not looking at Patch, either, but all that really means is that Frank is talking about you, and you’d already surmised that.

Patch was glancing between you and Frank, bewildered and confused and dismissive and almost- amused. He’d stopped eating, a rarity for Patch. All that means is, again, something you already know; Patch is annoying.

Frank is dead serious, his face solemn, but there’s resolve in his eyes; he knew the others wouldn’t take well to it. But he doesn’t look defeated or dejected, meaning he doesn’t think he’s been entirely shot down. He glances at you and gives you another small smile, almost reassuring, and that familiar sureness floods his eyes. He might not be cocky anymore, but he is always so confident.

Father is- an odd man. He usually looks cross, but when he’s actually angry, he just looks tired- his brow is not furrowed as it usually is, because he’s trying not to be angry because he knows that won’t help anything. His jaw is clenched, though, and he stares into his soup with steely, impassive eyes. Every few moments, he’ll run his tongue along his teeth, or his eyes will narrow, or he’ll close his eyes and shake his head slightly. He is very against whatever Frank has said.

“I know it’s scary to think about,” Frank continues softly, and for a brief moment, you’re afraid he’s suggested shipping you off to an asylum- but, of course, he’s the wrong brother for that. Honey weaves herself between your legs as she makes her way to Frank’s. “But she’s not a little girl anymore. And she’s not happy here, lost in her thoughts with nothing to do and no one to talk to.”

Mother looks at you suddenly, almost hopefully, as if waiting for you to argue with what he said. She wants you to become a bright, sweet girl one day, happy and present and busy and sociable, just like her. But you’re not, and Frankie is right- you are sad and oblivious and idle and quiet. You say nothing, though, because you don’t know what Frank has suggested or if you want to argue with him.

“You wouldn’t be losing her any more than you would be if she were off to be married, or something. But you could lose her if you let her remain here and-  _ rot _ , as she is.”

Father recoils, looking struck, eyes squeezing shut, lips closing in on themselves. Mother gasps as if Frankie has cursed, covering her mouth with her hand, looking off to the side, offended. Patch has looked down, considering.

You lean back, feeling bare and naked and exposed. You wonder if it’s a coincidence or if- somehow, without you noticing- Frank has snuck into your room and read your journal. You couldn’t imagine him doing that, or being able to without you noticing, but you feel strongly that he has. You stare into your own soup.

“Why don’t you ask  _ her _ what  _ she _ wants? Doesn’t that matter?” Frank continues.

“Of course that matters,” Mother says. The two of you meet eyes; everyone looks at you. You feel the guilt spread across your face, feel yourself flush with embarrassment.

“I have no idea what you’re all on about,” you admit in a shy, mousy voice. Mother deflates and Frankie looks as if you’re proving his point.

“Do you remember the McCormicks?” Frankie asks you.

“Um- Aunt Aoibheann’s family?”

“Yes,” he said, adjusting himself in his chair. “Her eldest, Dougal, has recently married. She’s in search of a companion, and I think you should take the job. You’d be staying with Aunt Aoibheann and Uncle Dougal- you’d be safe there.”

You blink once, twice, thrice. You look back at your soup. “I’d like to think about it,” you say. “Thank you for telling me.”

“Maura,” Father says, and you nearly jump. You look over at him, a strange man of few words, and you see a great fear in his emerald green eyes. Your heartstrings pluck and pain resonates through you.

You don’t speak words as you look into each other's eyes, emeralds and olives, two strange, quiet people who have always spoken the same unspoken language. He studies your face as if there’s more to be found, but there isn’t. You study his face, finding only fear and love and sadness. He’s a great man, a great father, and you want to curl into his arms like you did when you were a girl, like you did before. Finally, his eyes meet yours again, and his jaw works.

“The decision is yours alone,” he declares, and Mother gasps again.

“Frank,” she hisses as he stands. He looks down at her horrified face.

“She’s a grown woman, Mona. Strong, like her mother, and smart. And she’s been through- hell.” His voice cracks as he breathes the last word, and his emerald eyes threaten to cry, but he holds strong. “If she wants to stay with your sister, get paid for making friends with her cousin…” He looks down at his soup, losing his decisiveness as he looks at his wife’s frightened, horrified eyes. “She’ll be safe with Dougal and you know that.”

Mother stands, face set with something that might have been anger- it was not an expression you’d ever seen on her face. “We need to talk,” she says in a low, deadly voice.

“I don’t know what there is to talk about-” he says, but she scowls at him and he silences, glaring at his feet.

“Not in front of the children,” she says, and stalks towards their bedroom. He follows.

“We’re not children,” Patch whispers once they’re a safe distance away.

Frankie is staring into his soup, silent, so you reply. “You’re most certainly a child, little Patrick.”


	2. Chapter 2

You lay on your bed after you’ve finished washing the dishes, surrounded by your thin nightdress, skin kissed by late summer’s heat, feet tucked beneath the duvet you’ve largely disposed of at the end of your bed. You are hyper aware of the feel of it against your skin, the way it feels old and worn and delicate from years of overuse. You’re almost taken with it, occasionally able to instead focus on the admittedly less fine fabric of your dress or the scratch of the pillow beneath your head. You know you ought to be considering the companion opportunity, but you can’t seem to bother to think about it as you gently knead the bed and the duvet at your feet, listening to the sound it makes.

It is a long and mostly sleepless night.

When you wake in the morning, you see your mother sitting in the armchair beside your bed, rubbing the sleep out of her eyes with one demure hand and stroking Honey with the other. The cat looks at you as if you’re an insult, an offense. Her golden eyes shimmer in the gentle morning light, her calico coat barely disturbed by mother’s gentle ministrations.

“Are you upset with me?” You ask before you can consider speaking.

Mother almost startles at your voice, dropping her hand to look at you. She looks sad. “No, darling. I can honestly understand why you would want to take the job. I hope you can understand why I’m reluctant, as well.”

You look down at your pillow, at first content to not respond.

But if you’re leaving- going around other people, to be paid to be a companion, that simply would not do.

“Of course I understand,” you whisper softly. “But I am no longer a child. No longer so- naive. And I would be with your sister, her husband, her sons. I would be as safe there as I am here.”

Mother inhales slowly, looking at you for a long time, the sadness turning thoughtful, if a little reluctant. “Tell me what happened to you,” she breathes.

You tense and close your eyes. You decided before you had returned that you would not do that to yourself nor to them. But you’ve begun to speak now, and you do not wish to stop. It’s as if hope acts as an oil to the rusty metal of your throat. “I was stolen, and kept, and fed, and hurt.”

“Hurt  _ how _ ?” Mother asks desperately, touching your hand- you do not like to be touched, not anymore. You flinch, pulling away, staring at the mirror above your dresser. You sit up so you can see yourself.

Your brown hair is braided loosely over your shoulder, stray hairs sticking up all along it. You had not inherited your mother’s impeccable styling skills. Your skin is relatively pale with a peachy pink undertone, one your mother always cooed over. Your eyes, big and downturned, giving your face a sad and innocent feel to it, are halfway between green and silver, with little flecks of each within them. Most of your dresses are a plain grey, and they make them feel more green. Your nose, once straight and plain, had been broken so many times that it is a little crooked, one nostril now appearing smaller than its sister. A long scar interrupts one of your brows- a right to you, a left in the mirror. Your face is more ovular than it once had been, like Father’s, but still feminine, like Mother’s. It’s a little bit crooked, too- skewed the other way, almost balancing out your face, so subtly that you aren’t sure if it’s natural or not. Your cheeks are dotted with light freckles. Half of your left ear- your right in the mirror- had been visibly bitten off, enough of it that sometimes, hearing is a little more difficult. The doctor had said it was because the shape of the ear is important for funneling noise within. Your collarbone had been broken once- perhaps the most excruciating of them all- and you could very much tell by looking at it. Several of your ribs had been broken several times, so much that you leaned strangely. That, combined with your collarbone, made your shoulders lay uneven. Your left hip had been damaged, as well, making you even more uneven, even more precarious. None of these were so noticeable that you looked horrifying- no, after those first six months home, you did look relatively normal- you did seem to have very bad posture. Your corsets and dresses are difficult to make, your shoes near impossible.

You’re much thinner now than you used to be- not truly deathlike, but enough to make you a little bit uncomfortable whenever you saw yourself in a state of undress, but you simply could not manage to force yourself to eat enough to gain much weight, your stomach having shrunk from years of little food. You could never manage to find and stop at that sweet spot in the middle, eating enough so that your stomach hurt and would grow, and not eating so much that you were sick soon after, wasting food and rendering the whole exercise pointless. It was strange- as a child, you were chubby and round, always wishing to be thinner, never able to stand hunger long enough to thin down.

“I think you can work out what they did to me, Mother,” you breathe gently. You will not pick open a scab for anyone’s benefit, you will let it heal.

“They… Beat you,” Mother says. Your eyes focus on your awkward, strange, thin body, each part stacked precariously atop another.

“Yes.”

“But  _ why? _ ”

You look over at her. “If I knew the answer to that, I reckon I would sleep much better.”

Mother begins to cry gently, laying back in her chair, hand shaking as it runs over Honey. She’s far and beyond being afraid to cry in front of you. Her body quakes gently with each fully defined sob, covering her pretty face with her demure hand. She’s an elegant crier, just as beautiful as when she laughs, if much more tragically. You look like an angry babe when you cry, your skin growing red and splotchy, your breathing erratic and animalistic, your sobs blending into one another without reason. You can only cry for a few moments before you’re left coughing and retching, shaking, in as much physical pain as emotional. You must inherit that from your father, then- and the thought of Father, a strong and reserved man, crying like a child is very amusing to you. You imagine his moustache would look awfully strange, his brows as well. “I hate that I let you out to play,” Mother gasps. “Any other day, I always made you stay inside.”

“It’s not your fault, Mother,” you say. You almost want to outstretch a hand to hold hers, but you do not like to be touched. “There is nothing wrong with a girl playing in her own yard.”

Mother says nothing, just slowly composes herself and tucks her hair behind her ear, looking down at an unbothered Honey. You are both silent for a long time, until she finally speaks again. “You are talking a lot today.”

“I suppose companions ought to, yes?”

Mother smiles wryly. “They talk a bit, listen a lot.”

“I am a very good listener,” you say. “If you sit on my correct side.”

Mother laughs gently. “Yes, Maura. You’re a very good listener.”

It is an otherwise average day as you wait for your father and brothers to return home from work. Father and Patch are blacksmiths and work together; Frank is a jeweler. Frank is usually home first, as he is today; Mother is in the kitchen when he joins you on the couch.

“Hello, Frank,” you say, and he smiles at you like a school teacher praising the dunce.

“Hello, Maura. How was your day?”

“I believe it did, indeed, happen. And yours?”

He ignores the strangeness of your response. You imagine Patch would have gawked at you; he was largely too young to remember that you had always been odd. “My day was alright,” he says before proceeding to tell you things that you could not care less about if you were actively trying to. You ignore him, smiling when he looks at you, just like Mother does. He seems to light up everytime in much the same way he had when you’d greeted him.

Father and Patch return shortly thereafter and join you in the living room. You look at them, wondering if they, too, will look at you like a wonder for pretending to listen to them.

_ I am returning to my high _ , you think.  _ Conquering the world by playing pretend _ . “Hello, Father.”

Father blinks at you. “Hello, Maura.”

“How was your day?”

Father blinks again, and Patch frowns- whether because he is surprised, or upset that you are not paying him any attention, you don’t know. You hope it’s the latter, secretly. “It was fine.”

“It was horrible,” Patch whines as if someone had asked. He proceeds to tell you things that you care about even less than what Frank has said, because it is about Patch and not Frank. You do not smile at him, mostly because you do not like him.

Frank places an arm around you and you frown, tensing as your skin crawls, but Frank does not catch the hint. You consider scolding him- honestly, he should know better- but decide to sit there and see if the strange agony that writhes like a snake in your chest subsides. You manage to deflate against your brother, but glower at the floor. Still ignoring the conversation, you imagine that strange, writhing agony as a snake being wrestled, forced to lay there and obey, even if it remains taut and offended. Eventually, you place your cheek on Frank’s shoulder and feel his energy, his aura, his presence, the absolute Frank-ness of him. For a few strange moments, you do not feel like an  _ other _ . You feel like a little sister sitting on the couch with her older brother, and you should, because you are.

It feels good.

“Dinner is nearly ready,” Mother informs you all, and you notice her speak, because while you are not listening, you are not absent. The four of you sit at your respective seats at the table as Mother finishes cooking, then serves the meal.

“I think I would quite like to be a companion,” you say softly, interrupting Patch. He frowns at you, but you ignore him. You feel much more annoyed by him than you have in a long time.

Father and Mother lock eyes as Frank tries to suppress an obnoxious, self-satisfied grin.

_ Brothers, _ you think, as an old mantra returns to you.  _ Can’t live with them, but murder is frowned upon _ . Mother had been horrified, but Father always chuckled. You realize now it’s a little bit- well, it’s morbid, for one- but it isn’t very clever. You were a child, though, so you cut yourself a little bit of slack.

“I know you’re afraid of losing me,” you breathe, feeling like a deer in headlights. Your voice is faint and suggests that you are about to cry, making you grow tense and embarrassed. “But I will be fine. In fact, I will likely be better.”

Father touches your hand, and this time, you do not recoil or tense. You look at his hand, short and thick and calloused and hairy, his fingernails dirty, his skin covered in exposed cuts. It’s a familiar hand, a familiar warmth. You look into his emerald eyes, his face calm and impassive, but those eyes- they tell you that he is afraid, and hopeful, and sad, and proud. He opens his mouth to speak but does not seem to be able to find words.

You’ve both always been strange.

“It is your decision alone,” Mother says, much to your surprise. You look at her, into her sad, silvery eyes. She is not proud nor hopeful, but she doesn’t seem as terrified.

“I love you,” you breathe as a single tear falls. You look at her, and Father, and Frank, and finally Patch. “Except for you.” You know it’s not funny, but you also know the reactions your family will have.

Patch looks shocked as Frank laughs, and Father, disappointed, closes his eyes. Mother shakes her head, telling Patch that you’re joking and you do love him (which is true), and slapping Frank’s arm as he laughs. But Mother’s lips are curled into a soft smile, because you hadn’t done anything quite like that in a long time. Patch looks at you with a solemn expression, though, so you stop snickering and look at him.

“You’re very rude, Maura,” he mutters, looking down.

“You’re very sensitive, Patrick,” you say gently. “I do love you, of course.”

“I love you, too,” he says, seeming uncomfortable.

“We all love you, too,” Mother says.

“Yes,” Frank says, nudging you. Father squeezes your hand.

The rest of dinner is uneventful.

Afterwards, though, Frank sets out to write to cousin Dougal, and you sit next to him. He’s nearly glowing with self-congratulatory pride, as if he had single-handedly beaten the odds to get his poor, lonely little sister to finally participate in some facet of life. You wish you were a child again so you could slap him with little consequence.

“I’m glad you’ll be going,” he says as he pens the letter. “Though I will miss you when you’re gone.”

You blink and soften a bit. “I’ll miss you, as well.”

“Be sure to write to me,” he says.

You get a funny little smile. “I’m not much for words,” you remind him.

“You’re getting better,” he insists.

“I’ve  _ never _ been much for words.”

Frank signs the bottom of the page, his signature fancy and strange. “I’ll visit you when I can. London isn’t so terribly far away- and, of course, I really should visit them more often. Dougal and I have been discussing…”

Frank rambles on as he closes the letter in an envelope, and you, of course, ignore him, nodding and smiling at appropriate moments. He has stopped glowing at your every acknowledgement of him, but he does seem strangely happy.

He leaves you to send the letter, and there you sit, alone with Mother, in the kitchen. Patch and Father had disappeared after dinner.

Mother sits in the seat Frank had just abandoned, smiling at you with a strange gleam in her eyes. You blink. “You know,” she says. “You will be working for Adrienne.”

You blink again. “Yes.”

“Women are much harder to fool than men,” she says, and you blink again. “You might try paying attention when people speak.”

“I pay attention when you speak,” you argue, which is true.

“I’ve met Adrienne a few times,” Mother says. “Before she married Dougal. She talks much more than I do. More than Patch.”

“No one talks more than Patch,” you say, and Mother only looks at you, unamused. You should perhaps stop acting like a bratty child, but it is, in truth, the only way you know how to be, other than quiet.

You go to bed shortly thereafter and, for once, you sleep.


End file.
